Coming To --

tell me of these Sisters, the girls

gone Wild with imagining, succumbing

to desert blues

and ice, She, who will Arrive, knows

better than that, She

will bathe you in such liqueur, You

who

have neither Time nor Inclination, there, on

the horizon, You

see her hips

moving and her almond eyes

stinging, you

hold her breath in your

cupped hands, She

is there to teach

you to submit, You, who

would

scratch and kick

until

you found

yourself alone in

the Wild,

here for your Second birth, she

the midwife

cradling you in her arms . . .

*